Aedile
by TexasDreamer01
Summary: "He gritted his teeth, doing his best not to pant softly. Each breath hurt. There was a good chance that the pain throbbing on his chest was at least a magnificent bruise. / Not that he could tell. The sweat-soaked strip of cloth utterly obscured his vision." Image prompt, link in bio. That not-quite Gemshipping which is technically Tender. Post-series. For Roae.


He gritted his teeth, doing his best not to pant softly. Each breath hurt. There was a good chance that the pain throbbing on his chest was at _least_ a magnificent bruise.

Not that he could tell. The sweat-soaked strip of cloth utterly obscured his vision.

How he wished he could take it off. Clenched fists tightened, nails digging into bloodied palms. It was a futile effort - useless, too, he admitted ruefully - to do so. His arms were already falling asleep from being wrenched into place and hands bound roughly in cord.

He shifted restlessly on the ground, ignoring how his knees protested the treatment. The damp concrete did nothing to help him, and having his ankles similarly bound only pissed him off.

The memory of his mugging and subsequent kidnapping pulled a sour frown at his lips.

_At least it wasn't Ryou_, his mind whispered traitorously at him.

Begrudgingly, he admitted its truth. Having separate bodies, for once, was a boon.

Better only one of them hurt.

Idly, his mind dawdled over the incident. Just after dawn, he had thought to surprise Ryou by buying the groceries for the week. Breakfast would have been a simple affair - he learned early on that him and stoves didn't mix particularly well; there were only a few meals he knew how to cook, and microwaves baffled him.

…. _Nooo, the groceries_, he bemoaned in his mind. The two muggers had caught him on his way back home, and everything had spilled all over the ground - some of it into the street. Losing food was always a personal pain of his, after growing up with so little of it.

"I see Tough Guy is awake."

His head jerked toward the sound of the sneering voice. It was one of the muggers, he recognized that much, and approaching closely. He debated tensing up in preparation for a fight, but acceded to the fact that it wouldn't help his case any.

They closed in on him, enough so that he could feel the heat emanating from their bodies.

… And the smell, besides. Did nobody take pride in keeping clean when you were a criminal? Apparently not. But then again, they never had very high standards in the first place.

Suddenly his head was jerked upward, a hand knotting itself up in his hair with a too-tight grip, causing his eyes to prick with tears. The gang laughed - he must have made some noise of discomfort, his hair being yanked higher.

"You owe us money," the gang leader announced unceremoniously. A generous pull of his hair, this time enough to rock his knees, accompanied the words a moment later.

He searched his memories. Since… getting back, Ryou had graciously allowed him a room (not much he could do, otherwise; it was either that or "set him loose on the city"), and he had no reason to solicit petty thieves. Anything he wanted, he could steal himself.

_But_.

Ishtar and he had made thorough use of the city's criminals, enlisting whom they pleased to accompany the Ghouls. Not that they needed terribly much done that they or the kid's pre-assembled gang couldn't accomplish on their own, but a bit of misinformation always helped when you had a spare coin and little time to do it yourself.

And he always made sure his debts were paid - final Shadow Game or no final Shadow Game. Which means Ishtar hoisted his off on him.

Which also meant he owed a certain Egyptian a thorough beating. Possibly pick his wallet, too, to pay back for the groceries.

In his musings, he had completely forgotten that he was bound, hostage, and currently being interrogated. Pain blossomed sharply in his rib cage, and he sucked in a startled breath. Dammit, that _hurt_. It was close enough to whatever injury he already had that exhaling turned into a rough wheeze.

"I see I've got your attention," The leader said smoothly, smugness radiating off him, "What, did your first beating wind you? You looked so tough last time."

Ah. So these punks _were_ from Battle City. Snarling, he bit out in a measured tone, "I owe no debts to _anyone_. Whomever you're looking for obviously isn't me."

His statement was met with a round of laughter. Tch. They were so unbearably predictable he might have vomited if breathing weren't such a pain.

There was another punch - or maybe it was a kick - and he was tossed to the ground. His body throbbed from the abuse, but he refused to show any sign of discomfort to his captors. This wasn't the worst situation he'd been in, anyway.

Just as he'd resigned himself to a beating, quietly gathering his reserves in preparation, a very particular _snick_ made his blood freeze in foreboding.

Fists, kicks, tosses - he could handle that. Knives… not so much. He wasn't a fool. Knowing these idiots, they wouldn't bother with the surgical precision he prided in himself, and maybe even on purposely cut him with a dirty blade if they knew what kind of damage infection could cause.

"Maybe you've forgotten us," The gang leader rumbled in a slick sneer, his footsteps echoing over the damp concrete. The sharp edge of the knife was placed delicately against his beating pulse, "You and your blond friend had us running all over the city yapping our mouths off during that big tournament some years ago - we haven't been able to have a chat with you since then. Kept scurrying off on us, see."

Internally, he swore colourfully. Knowing that they - and consequently, his own actions - had haunted Ryou years after his (apparently not so) final death boiled his blood. The boy was _useful_, and beside the point utterly innocent of everything except being far too kind for his own good.

"I'm pretty sure even you guys aren't pathetic enough to need that money now."

Ah, well. Nobody ever said he didn't go out with a bang.

The knife at his throat quivered with the surprise of its owner. Likely they didn't think somebody would sass them when they're in very obvious mortal peril.

… It was more that he liked living it up a little. No sense in being afraid to die.

He smirked at how the man sputtered in disbelief, "What? Am I wrong?"

Sharp, searing pain was his answer. Still, he grinned, knowing full well he looked like a madman. The bit of blood tricking down into his hair didn't faze him, and he even let a rumble of laughter loose.

If scaring them proved the means to his escape, then all the more fun. Quickly, he was yanked back up into a sitting position, the hand knotted closely to his scalp so tight of a grip that his knees were barely holding his weight.

Though the slice at his throat wasn't deep, being man-handled in such a manner opened the wound more - the burn of tearing skin made his vision flutter for a moment, blood trickling sluggishly down his throat.

Hands shoved themselves into his pockets. By their cursing, he knew they didn't find much more than the change he stuffed into a back pocket after grocery shopping. As soon as he knew how much food cost in Domino, and what both of them regularly ate, he always made sure to carry the bare minimum.

His thoughtfulness gained him another punch - this time from the other side, something he bore silently - and the sounds of muttered discussion from the other gang members was lulling background noise.

Just as it seemed a decision had been reached (a more thorough beating to vent their frustrations at a failed mugging, no doubt), the sound of a door being violently opened stole at everyone's attention.

The voices sounded familiar, but between the attention his injuries demanded of him, and the sounds of what must have been the gang getting their asses thoroughly handed to him, he couldn't spare much time to figure out who it was. He was working on how to get out of the ropes binding his arms together when there were suddenly hands on his face.

Nearly toppling over from rearing back in startlement, the hands that were at his face quickly moved to his shoulders, stabilizing him.

"It's just me." _Ryou_.

Relief washed through him; he couldn't even care for why it was, either. Obligingly, he stayed still as the cloth was carefully taken off, blinking at the surprisingly dim light in order to adjust.

It turned out he was dragged to a warehouse. Not surprising, considering how often he and Ishtar used to drag people here during Battle City. He barely even had time to process the information before his arms - and shortly, his feet - were freed from the ropes.

Having learned from experience, he slowly worked feeling back into his limbs, concentrating so utterly that hearing a familiar (albeit much more despised) voice jolted him from the almost meditative actions.

It was the pharaoh, flanked by his blond friend. A flicker of surprise wormed past his instinctive hatred at the sight of the pharaoh. So he and the brat _weren't_ glued at the hip.

The thought was quickly dismissed when he saw the man's carbon-copy come up to them. That he was preoccupied with rubbing his hands, which he idly noted had drops of blood and had the beginning blooms of bruises, _did_ surprise him. A fighter he learned Yugi was not, and for that his respect went up for him a notch.

A very tiny notch. He wouldn't give the pharaoh an inch in any aspect.

"You alright?"

He nodded curtly, already moving to stand. Ryou hovered near his elbow in case he stumbled, something which he silently appreciated as it felt as if his knees would buckle from the tossing and long minutes (hours? he didn't know) of kneeling.

"What'd ya do to get a gang afta ya?" The mutt - and such an apt name, he really ought to thank the priest for coming up with it - asked him, crossing his arms.

He gave the man a dirty look, "Ishtar hoisted his debts off to me," To Ryou, he muttered discretely, "You know the next time he's swinging by?"

The Pharaoh shushed his friend's immediate reaction, looking thoughtful. A shared glance with his twin made him nod, and the younger of the two pulled a pen out his pocket.

"You have some paper on you?" At his raised eyebrow, Yugi elaborated, "I have Malik's number - and I think it would be easier if you were able to call him up."

One eyebrow went and joined the other. Little goody-two-shoes not defending a _friend_? It was truly a sight to behold.

The half-pint noticed the look, and arched a brow of his own, "Look. I don't abandon my friends, but this was uncalled for. So do you have a piece of paper, or not?"

He grunted in approval. The receipt was retrieved from off the ground, and it was quickly shoved in Yugi's direction. A number was quickly scrawled on there and handed back to him.

"Just don't do anything permanent, alright?" The younger man asked, a wry grin touching his lips. _Not bad_, he thought with a smirk of his own, _Kid's not so hung-up on ideals, any more_.

Pharaoh and Co. quickly left after that, something he was more than content with. There was only so much interaction he could stand from those fools on any given day - gaining respect or not.

"C'mon, Ryou. I missed breakfast."


End file.
